Porcelain Fists
by Morgen86
Summary: Meredith, Derek and tequila. Vanquishing the demons. Or trying to, anyway. A post 5.16 one-shot.


_Inside your porcelain fists your palms begin to crack_

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Derek slowed down a little after the first three rounds, started taking two gulps, sometimes three to finish a drink. It wasn't much, but at the rate he was going, it was something. It gave her the chance to catch up a little. Meredith traced the line of her lower lip with her tongue, tasting tequila. Her throat still burned like a lick of flame had gone down it and her eyes stung, but she reached for the bottle of Diablo and poured herself another. This was a drink until it's all run dry kind of night, and he'd drain the bottle by himself if she let him. The least she could do was share the hangover. Take half the headache for herself. She pulled her legs up onto the couch and sipped at her tequila, watching Derek while he watched nothing at all. He stared straight ahead, his face set in hard lines like cracks in concrete. Bruises shadowed his eyes and lurked beneath the dark wealth of stubble along his jaw line. The cut on his nose made her wince in a way that even great, gaping wounds in the bodies of emergency room victims never managed to do.

She took another sip and laid her head back against his shoulder. There was no point in conversation. He'd barely said three words strung together since she got him home, and she wasn't sure what there was to say anyway. That was the problem, really. People apologizing and trying to be nice about things they couldn't understand. She'd hated it when they'd done it to her, and she wasn't going to do it to him. She'd spare him that at least.

Derek leaned forward again to refill. Again and again and again until the silence ate away at her. She listened to the ticking of the clock and the way he breathed. Low and heavy as if every breath was an effort. Her leg was warm where their thighs touched, but her fingers felt frozen and there was an ache somewhere deep inside her chest. It throbbed like broken ribs. She closed her eyes and rubbed his back and missed the sound of his voice. He paused unexpectedly, halfway through draining what she thought might be his fifth, and grunted softly, the sound reverberating off the glass.

"He's fucking your sister," he said, still staring straight ahead. His voice was ragged and raw with edges ripped open like sutures done wrong.

Meredith straightened up. "Who?" she asked, not thinking. It hit her a second later. "Oh. Mark."

Derek jerked his head in what might have been a nod and polished off the rest of his drink with one harsh swallow.

"Okay," said Meredith. It didn't matter. Lexie could sleep her way through all of Seattle Grace for all she cared right now. She'd be hard pressed to drum up so much as a single drop of sisterly concern tonight. She could try again later.

Maybe.

"He steals things," muttered Derek, staring down at his empty glass. "That's what he does. Like a thief. He steals."

"What?" Meredith splayed her hand flat against his back, rubbing in slow circles. He jerked his body around to look at her.

"He couldn't have you, so he went for the next best thing," he said, his words coming out snarled and slurred like the edges had caught on his teeth and torn.

"He couldn't have me," she agreed. She thought that was obvious, but maybe he wanted reminding tonight. Maybe he needed it.

"He couldn't…"

"Never," she said softly, firmly, pressing her lips to his cheek. He seemed to relax a little at that, leaning into her touch. "It's okay," she murmured as she pulled away. "About Mark and Lexie, I mean. Maybe their happy," she said even though that wasn't the point.

He just dipped towards the coffee table again, reaching for the bottle. That would be six. Maybe seven. She'd lost track somewhere along the way. "Me too," she muttered, pushing her empty glass towards him. Derek nodded and the tequila sloshed into and around their glasses. He didn't seem to notice and she didn't comment. It didn't matter anyway. She could buy a new table.

By the time she was halfway through her third drink, she felt a little bolder. The room was starting to warm with a glowing buzz that spun her head. She scooted closer, snuggling against him, and he let her, shifting so their bodies fit together like the puzzle pieces they were supposed to be. "How's your hand feel?" she asked quietly. "Is the ice still cold?"

Derek shrugged and the motion jerked her body up and down. "S'fine…" he said. She uncurled from his side with a sigh, leaning forward to look at his right hand. His strong, beautiful surgeon's hand. It lay there limp on the couch cushion like something he'd discarded, and she had to bite her lip to stifle a sob.

"Derek," she whispered. The ice had fallen off and he hadn't bothered to put it back. She leaned across his lap and grabbed the bag.

"Leave it," he muttered, but when she laid it over his hand, he flinched at the cold but didn't pull away.

"It'll help."

He nodded, and for a moment he was perfectly still, staring at his hand, blue eyes gone black as bruises. Then he was off like a gunshot, curling forward abruptly and rolling in on himself. His head dipped down until his forehead smashed against his knees, and he started to shake. The drink in his left hand trembled and sloshed. His shoulders were an avalanche and his breath hitched and rattled against the silence. Crying without the tears. Without any of the sounds.

"Shhh," said Meredith, splaying her palm flat against his back. Every muscle was taut and jerking, fettered by ugly spasms and all the alcohol. "It'll help," she promised. "It'll help."

"I don't want it to help," he snarled. He straightened up as he spoke, nearly flinging her off him with the sudden force. She sunk back against the cushions and he stared at her with bloodshot eyes, lips peeling back from his teeth like a cornered animal. "My hands kill people," he hissed, thrusting both of them up in front of her face. His glass toppled over forgotten, leaking tequila into the cushions and down the side of her leg. "You should chop 'em off, Mer. Fucking chop 'em off." The words slurred together, all slush and bitterness like dirty snow in winter, falling in chunks from cars, coated in fumes and dark, ugly things.

"I love your hands. I'm not getting rid of them," she said lightly, but her voice sounded too thin. Tinny and cheap, trying for a happiness she did not have. She righted his glass and set it back on the coffee table, letting her hair hide her face until she'd blinked away her tears. He was a surgeon. She loved his hands.

"You shouldn't love them," he said, sounding stubborn, belligerent.

Meredith ignored the comment and dropped to her knees. She scooted along the narrow strip of floor, wedging herself between his legs and the coffee table. Faced the snarling, cornered, wounded animal still captured in his eyes and took his hands in hers. The lines on his palms were familiar paths and she traced each one with her fingertips. She would do what she could. "I love your hands," she said again, pressing palm to palm. His skin made her body hum.

Derek stared at her, glassy eyed as marbles. The only thing that sparked beneath the tequila haze was disbelief.

"They save lives," she murmured as she eased the icepack back over his hand. "Don't forget that. Don't forget all the lives you've saved."

"Killed Jen," he spit. "Murdered her."

"You didn't kill her."

He leaned around her like she wasn't there, reaching for his glass and knocking it over with a slam heavy enough it seemed like a small miracle nothing shattered. She knelt there barely breathing, listening to the soft glug-glug of the tequila as he refilled. "Murdered her," he repeated when he straightened up. He threw his head back, tossing the shot down his throat.

She watched his Adams apple bob as he drained the glass, and then he was curling forward again. He mashed his forehead against hers and the small of her back slammed into the coffee table, pushed back by the shock of the sudden force. Their noses squished together and the heavy scent of tequila wafted over her. She found herself drowning in twin pools of broken, battered blue. "Derek," she whispered, fingers tracing her love along the bruises. "You didn't."

"I'm a murderer," he hissed as if he hadn't heard her. He sobbed just once, and the sound curled down her throat to tear at her heart. "You wanna love a murderer?" he asked, clutching at her, fingers tangling in her hair as he smashed their faces together. His words fell inside her mouth, fierce with desperation. "You wanna live with a murderer? You wanna mmm…" He stopped short with a snarl and a shake of his head. Coldness dripped over her as he pulled away, leaving the ghost of a word hanging in the air.

She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to cry. "Yes," she said. "Because you're not a murderer. You're a good man." He snorted derisively as if that was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "You are," she insisted, rising up on her knees to get closer to him. To chase away the cold. He was her warmth. Even when he was broken and snapping, it didn't change that. It didn't go away.

"I fail," he slurred. "I fucking fail everyone. You deserve better."

"Better doesn't exist," she said quietly. She could feel her heart beating in her throat, and she hoped like hell he couldn't hear it too. "I want you. In my house, in my life. I want you. I love you, Derek." The corners of his mouth twitched and turned up in a broken attempt at a smile, and for a moment she forgot all about her tequila soaked jeans and the way the floor was starting to just about kill her knees. This was why she saved them up, the 'I love you's.' So they meant something. Well, she saved them up because she was a freak of nature who still hadn't managed to shed the last of her neuroses, but she saved them up all the same. It only made sense that they'd mean more when they weren't tossed around and tacked onto every conversation like they meant just as much as hello and how are you. Because she saved them up and she knew she fucking meant them. "I love you," she said again, sliding her hands up his legs and climbing into his lap. If the words brought him even the shallowest of smiles, she'd use up all her surplus tonight.

He was slow to move, but he slung an arm around her all the same. Cold seeped through her shirt to chill her back. His right hand then. The icepack. "Yeah?" he muttered, staring at her with dull eyes.

"Yeah," she agreed. "A lot." She leaned in and kissed him, parting his lips with her tongue. Their mouths mashed together and their teeth clinked; it was sloppy; his stubble scraped. But his fingers gripped the small of her back like he cared, and she loved it.

He was still smiling when they pulled apart. Whether it was the alcohol or her mouth, something had done the job. The pain blurred and slid and left him free to smile, but then he shrugged and it was gone again. "I killed her," he said flatly, all the spark gone out of him. The last little ember squashed. Her heart sank like a stone. "She came to me for help and I killed her."

"It's not that simple," she said, petting his face, fingertips brushing against heavy stubble and skating over cuts and bruises.

He shook his head and moved to refill his glass without dropping her from his lap. She clung to him like a koala bear as he leaned forward and she dipped back. He fumbled with the bottle and straightened up.

"Derek," she sighed, resettling against him. He drained his glass in one long pull and stared at her. "The choices aren't just saved or killed. You did everything you could, and sometimes that's still not enough. It doesn't make you a murderer."

He blinked once, twice, his eyes dark and glazed, hanging there silent in the spinning room. "No," he decided, his voice turned sullen with the alcohol. "I killed her." He began another journey towards the coffee table, looming into her personal space as he pressed her back. She scrambled out of his lap and sat down beside him, nudging her empty glass towards him with her foot. This was an argument she wouldn't win tonight. He filled her up clumsy and slow, spilling almost as much onto the table as into the glass. She drank it down in one long gulp and they sat in silence while he sipped slowly for once, contemplating the bottom of the glass. She wondered if she should tell him there was never anything to find down there. She'd already checked.

He took a sip and shook his head. Took a sip and stared. His shoulders hunched. Misery wafted off of him in waves, stronger than the smell of alcohol. "I hate," he began, the words curdling on their way out. Mark. The hospital. The world. Meredith bit her lip and prayed for one of them. Anything so long as it wasn't, "Myself," he finished for her. She closed her eyes to keep the tears from coming. That one. So long as it wasn't that one. "I don't wanna be me anymore," he growled.

"I know," she said, watching as he leaned forward again for another round of drinks. The bottleneck clinked against the glass, delicate as bells. The tequila sloshed on its way out. Amber and so beautiful, catching what little light there was. The edges of the room had started to blur a little, swimming in and out when she wasn't reminding them to focus. To focus, she needed to focus. On Derek who was in fucking pieces and hating himself. She had to find the words. Only if she knew anything, it was that words were condescending when the world's gone up in flames. She scooted close and curled around him, draping her body over his. She petted his hair, sorting out the tangled curls.

"I know," she said again. "This is the impossible part."

He turned into her. "You know?" His voice was a rough slur of sound but it pleaded with her to understand.

"Yes. Shhh…" She kissed his throat. "I know."

Derek nodded and slumped back against the couch like all the air had gone out of him. Tears had pooled in his eyes and one by one they began to slip down his face in a silent stream of misery. Meredith sighed and leaned against him, comforting herself with the feel of his hair beneath her fingertips while she tried to comfort him. He shouldn't have to hurt. He only ever wanted to do good, to heal. Give people their shattered lives back, pieced whole again by his hands. Tears clouded her vision, as silent as his. He shouldn't have to hurt.

The silence was disturbed by a slow creak like a door being eased open. Derek didn't seem to notice, but her ears pricked at the sound. The last thing he needed was his subordinates parading in to see their boss weeping on the couch. Like a traffic accident in an intersection that everyone slowed down to watch. She heard the sound of cautious, shuffling footsteps. Someone was home and creeping like a little mouse. She wouldn't put it past Izzie to spy; she had a nosey streak a mile long that never seemed to die. Maybe she should have taken him to the trailer tonight, but none of his stuff was even there anymore. Meredith uncurled herself from him and set down her glass with a frustrated sigh. Too late for that now anyway. She'd have to run interference.

"I'll be right back," she said, pressing her lips to his cheek in a fleeting kiss. Derek just nodded and sunk into the cushions. She set the icepack back over his hand. He frowned but said nothing; at least he would still humor her.

The room spun in a sudden kaleidoscope of light and shadow as she stood up, but she took a breath and forced it steady. She dried her eyes and walked in what was a pretty decent attempt at a straight line out into the hallway only to smack into her sister.

Lexie gasped and stumbled backwards. "Meredith!"

"Lexie…"

"Is Dr. Shepherd okay?" stammered Lexie.

Meredith just stared at her, hands on her hips. Sometimes it really seemed like her sister tried to be stupid.

"It's just," continued Lexie when she was met with only silence. She shook her head, wringing her hands together. "I'm sorry!" she gushed. "I wanted to tell you about Mark when you asked me. I really did. It's been so awful not telling anyone, you know? And I've felt awful keeping it a secret from you!"

Meredith pursed her lips together, about to comment when she noticed the half open front door. Her heart skipped a beat. "Is he here?"

"What?"

"Mark. Is he here?"

Lexie flinched, glancing back at the open door. "No," she said hesitantly as guilt smeared across her face in an ugly blush.

"Outside," ordered Meredith in a low voice, shoving her sister out the door and onto her porch. She pulled the door shut behind them. The night air was far too cold for just her sweater and she shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. "You brought Mark here?" she demanded. "Tonight?"

"I, um…" began Lexie, all nervous and fluttery.

Meredith turned to scour the street and found him standing at the bottom of the steps, half hidden by the shadows. He had his hands jammed into his pockets and was watching them with an awkward, uncertain smile on his face. She rolled her eyes.

"We were just going to go straight up to my room," continued Lexie breathlessly. "He wasn't going to say anything to Derek, that's why I was checking. To make sure it was all clear."

"No," said Meredith, feeling a sobering surge of anger course through her. She shuffled back and forth, moving a little to keep warm. She should've slipped some shoes on first. Cold didn't mix so well with angry, but at least it was killing every last bit of her buzz.

"…What?" stammered Lexie.

"No," she said again. "Absolutely not." She looked back at Mark, calling him to her with a jerk of her head.

"But Dr. Shepherd punched him first," continued Lexie, sounding apologetic and a little unsure. "He wasn't trying to start anything."

"I don't care." Mark clomped slowly up the steps and into the pool of lamplight, coming to a halt beside her sister. Meredith glared at him, her jaw clenching. "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

He at least had sense enough to look sheepish, and he ducked his head, rubbing his hand back through his hair. "Lexie and I were just going to…" he began.

"You have a house somewhere. An apartment. Wherever it is you keep your stuff? Use that."

"Come on, Meredith," said Mark. "He doesn't get to tell me who I can be with. And this isn't just… It's a relationship," he said proudly, glancing at Lexie. "A real one."

"I wouldn't care if it was a freaking marriage. I'd still be standing out here asking you what the hell you think you're doing."

"I didn't do anything wrong," he protested. "Derek's the one who was being an ass. I told him the truth and he started beating the crap out of me!"

Meredith shook her head and tugged the sleeves of her sweater down farther, drawing her fingers into the warmth. "I don't know what you were thinking, springing this on him like that. Did you honestly expect a better reaction?"

Mark just frowned at her, and she found it infuriating. "What are you talking about?"

"Your timing sucks," she snapped. "He'd just lost Jen. His patient. The one he's been trying to save for days. Did you know that?"

"Damn," he muttered, looking down at the porch floor. "I didn't know. I had no idea."

"You didn't know?" Her whole body trembled, shivering with the cold and thin, disbelieving laughter. "Did you even bother to look at him?" she asked. "Did you take so much as a single second to ask if it was a good time before just going ahead and doing what you wanted? Because if you had even bothered to look at his face, you would've seen it. You would've realized that he was hanging on by a thread. That's it. One single fucking thread, and you snapped it."

"He's lost patients before," said Mark mulishly.

"Not like this, he hasn't. He caused the complication. _He_ feels responsible." She tugged her hand back through her hair, glaring up at him. "The patient's husband called him a murderer. You've known him all your life. Think about it."

She saw realization slide across his face, closely followed by the first genuine twinge of remorse. "You know about how his dad--"

"Yeah," said Meredith abruptly, cutting him off. This wasn't any of Lexie's business. "I know about that." She glanced over at her sister to find her huddled against the wall, looking small and intimidated.

"I'm just… I'm just gonna go sit over there," stammered Lexie, pointing to the swing. She shuffled awkwardly past them, blushing furiously, and sat down on the edge of the bench furthest from them.

Mark watched her go and then looked back at Meredith. "Okay," he said slowly, tugging on his scruff. "It was bad timing. I get it. But you've got to talk to him for me."

"No. This is between you and Derek."

"Come on, Big Grey," he said affectionately, grinning down at her. "You owe me. I was on your side during the whole Rose thing. Team Dirty Mistresses, right? Make him see me and Lexie aren't a bad thing."

"Are you kidding me?" she spluttered. "This is not about you and Lexie, and this has _nothing_ to do with Rose! This is about you and Derek, that's it."

"I told him about Lexie; he punched me in the face. How is this not about me and her?"

"He asked you not to see her!" said Meredith slowly, feeling like she was talking to a two year old. "You said okay and then did it anyway. This is about you yet again taking his trust and throwing it in his face. It's you and Addison all over again to him."

"But I told him myself. I came clean. Besides, he's over me and Addison. He told me to sleep with her if I wanted."

"No," snapped Meredith. "He's not over you and Addison. He's over _Addison_. But you slept with his wife, Mark. In his house. In his _bed_. It doesn't matter that he doesn't love her anymore or that their marriage was already shot to hell when you did it. It doesn't even matter that I have to be grateful to you for hurting him in this backwards perverse kind of way because he came out here and met me because of it. None of that is an excuse. None of it makes the knife you stuck in his back any less brutal."

"But we were friends again," said Mark forlornly. "We were friends. We got past that."

"No you didn't. You buried it and pretended it wasn't there."

"But we were friends again…" he said again like that was all that mattered.

Meredith rubbed at her arms, cold and impatient. He just didn't get it. "You're always going to be the biggest target around when Derek needs something to hit," she said. "And until you stop acting so incredibly self absorbed and _see_ what you did to him, I'm going to think you deserve it."

Mark scowled at her, his brow tugged down in a dark frown. "So what are you saying," he muttered. "Are you gonna try and tell me I can't see Lexie too?"

"No, Mark," she sighed, shaking her head. "If this is a real relationship and you make each other happy, great. Have fun with that." She glanced back at the house and the closed door, adding, "But you can't see her here."

"What?" gasped Lexie, scrambling to her feet and back to them. "Ever?"

Meredith frowned, ignoring her to stare at Mark. "This is my house. Derek is my boyfriend. This is our _home_. You're not welcome here until Derek says you are."

"But…" stammered Lexie.

Meredith pivoted around to look at her sister. "Lexie, I'm sorry," she said. "Because we're kind of sisters, and that's nice. Normally you'd be welcome to bring over whoever you wanted, but if you try and sneak him in again, I will kick you out."

Lexie glanced back and forth between Mark and Meredith, looking like she was just then realizing what kind of deep and warring history she'd stepped into. "Okay," she said quietly. "I can… I won't, I mean…I will not sneak him in. Zero sneaking."

"Good," said Meredith, turning towards the door. "I have to get back to Derek. You should stay at Mark's tonight, Lexie."

"How is he?" called Mark.

She paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. "Do you really care?"

"I…yeah," said Mark roughly. "He's my brother."

Meredith sighed and turned around to look at him, shivering in the cold. His face was as badly beaten as Derek's, his eyes earnest and pleading. "He's devastated," she said at last before slipping back into the house and closing the door on them.

She found Derek sitting just as she'd left him, hunched over the tequila bottle, glass in hand. More like herself than she'd been in a long time. He glanced up when she sat down beside him, but he said nothing. Meredith sighed and grabbed the bottle, needing something to take away the chill and the thought of Mark. She shivered as she filled her glass, eyeballing how much was left while she poured. A few drinks at most. They were almost out. Derek was still staring morosely at his hands and so she downed the shot with a quick flick of her wrist and poured another for herself. A little more of the headache. A little less of it for him. She'd take all the pain for herself if she could just figure out a way. It hurt less to feel it herself than to watch him sit there crushed under it.

The alcohol settled poorly on top of everything she'd already drank, and the room started to spin almost immediately. Slow. Like a carrousel winding down. "Derek," she mumbled, sagging towards him. All he gave her was a grunt, but he twisted to accommodate her, resting his chin on top of her head. "The room's spinning," she said dully.

"Been doing that for awhile," he observed like she was silly for just now noticing.

"It's pretty." She squinted her eyes and watched as the lights blurred. Colors glistened and swam. Her head was starting to fray.

"What?"

"The lights… Nothing."

He nodded, swiping at the bottle and missing by a mile. Meredith scooted forward and picked it up for him, filling their glasses with the very last of the Diablo. The last drops dripped from the rim, fat and golden and full of hazy promises. The empty bottle tumbled over when she caught it with her elbow and the tequila sloshed and spilled a little as she scooted back on the couch, twisting so she sat cross-legged and facing Derek.

"Here," she mumbled, passing him his. They clinked their glasses together, spilling even more, soaking their fingertips. She laughed even though it wasn't funny, and he joined in with a raw chuckle that was dry and dark and not at all like Derek. They took their shots in unison, throwing them down their throats. Her glass made it back onto the coffee table, but Derek's missed completely. It plummeted to the ground, saved from shattering only by the Persian rug. She bent down and wrapped her hand around it on the second try. She hung there for a moment, staring at her hair pooled on the floor in loops of dirty blonde as the blood rushed to her head. Crappy hair. So many split ends. She laughed again.

When she straightened up, the room was swimming even more and she slumped against Derek's chest. She liked it there. He felt so good. So freaking good. And the room wouldn't stop spinning.

"All done," she said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. Her lips were tingling.

"There's more?"

"No. That's all I had," she lied. There was more tucked away in cabinets here and there. At least two bottles. Maybe three. But another two would kill them. Kill them dead. There'd already been enough dead today. She laughed again, just a little, and tilted her head back to stare at him, but his face was too close to focus on. It was just a blur of flesh and darker shadows with a black mass at the top that had to be his hair. She reached out idly and touched the black. She was right. Curls. She tugged on them and he groaned.

"Mer," he slurred.

"Mmm…" She pulled back a little so she wasn't too cross-eyed to focus on his freaking face. He was blinking at her, glassy-eyed and gone. Even with the cuts and bruises, he looked delicious. He looked like he was hers. The room swam, but he didn't. She licked her lips, splaying her hand flat against his cheek. He snaked an arm around her and she felt happier. He should feel happy too. He should. "I really fucking love you," she sighed.

He turned his head and sucked on her throat in answer, his stubble scraping and then his tongue. Everything tingled. The room started spinning again in lusty, delirious circles. She curled her fingers in his hair, gasping when he pushed a hand between her legs and rubbed her through her jeans.

Her knee brushed against his groin and he bucked a little. He found the hollow of her throat and outlined it with his tongue. She wanted. Oh how she wanted, but Alex and Izzie were both still unaccounted for. "We have to," she gasped, grinding against him. "Stairs. We should go upstairs."

He lifted his lips from her neck, leaving her feeling cold and rubbed raw. "What?" he mumbled.

"Stairs," said Meredith again, still panting a little. "Then we can… Upstairs, okay?" She slithered out of his lap, still throbbing with want and need and the lack of him. He nodded but made no move to get up.

She staggered to her feet, bumping into the coffee table. The room did loop de loops for a moment, violent ones, but she clutched at his shoulder and stared and stared at what she thought was the doorway. It stopped moving soon enough. That was the trick. You had to stare it down. Into submission. She giggled again. Stare it down. She really was funny tonight. She looked back at Derek, wanting to share, but he was slumped over in a pile of misery and her mirth died a sudden death.

"Come on," she said gently, bending down to help him up. He staggered towards her, clumsy and unbalanced, nearly bowling her over. Meredith caught him and slung an arm around his waist. His feet didn't seem to know which way was forward and she half dragged, half carried him towards the stairs. They slammed into a wall once and she caught her hip on the banister hard enough to make her curse and the both of them stagger to a halt.

"Mer?" he asked, a dusting of concern peeking through the haze.

"I'm fine," she said, rubbing at her side with the hand that wasn't holding him. "Let's just…" But then he was pawing at her again, and they stumbled back to collide with the wall. Every touch was clumsy, but she was drunk enough that it licked through her veins like fire. He ground against her and she hissed. Maybe on the stairs then. Who cared anyway? It was her house. Her head lolled to the side to give him more of her neck and her front door swam slowly into focus. They were framed by the doorway like their very own naughty postcard to whoever came in. Not the stairs then. Not the… "Stairs," she gasped, pushing him back a little. "Stairs first. Then sex. Not the other way around. Not on the stairs either."

He made a sound that was maybe a grunt, maybe a laugh. She hoped it was a laugh.

They scrambled forward in a heap of bumbling limbs as she grabbed at everything she could to keep them from falling. It was an impossible climb and he leaned against her the whole way up, dragging his feet and tripping over them. She had a pain in her side from holding his weight on top of hers, and, by the time they were halfway to the landing, she'd lost all thoughts of sex. They should've just done it on the couch. Or right in front of the freaking front door. He'd already gone back to that deep, dark well he'd been drowning himself in all night, and at this point, passing out seemed much more likely than orgasms. And almost as nice.

"Come on," she coaxed, trying to keep the stairwell from spinning. "Step, Derek. You've gotta lift your foot. Help me a little please."

He lurched to the right but did as she asked, and with a few more pushes she got them to the top. They staggered down the hallway towards their room, and he seemed to handle it better than the stairs. She gasped in air and grabbed at the stitch in her side as she guided him through the open door.

"We made it," she said. Derek just grunted and pushed her backwards. They slammed into the door and it clicked shut. "What…" she started to stammer in surprise, but his mouth came down to cover hers and destroy the sound. The room spun and she tasted tequila. Apparently he still wanted to. Orgasms after all then.

Desire flared through her again like embers suddenly swelling into wildfire. The room tilted and she clung to him to keep from falling, pulling at his shirt and his hair. His kiss was hard and bruising, crushing the air out of her in feathery gasps. Her head dipped back until it bumped against the door. She sucked on his lip and wanted, pulling him closer and closer.

Derek tugged her leg up and wrapped it around his waist, grinding into her. Sparks flared behind her eyes and she dug her heel into his back, urging him closer and closer. More friction. Always more. His kisses moved from her mouth to her throat, sloppy and shivering, filled with the scrape of stubble and the press of his tongue. He fumbled at the button on her jeans but couldn't get it open. "Mer, please," he whined, still grinding against her, refusing to relinquish her leg.

"Okay," she said, kissing him back. "You wanna?" She wiggled her hand down between them, popping the button on her jeans before turning to his and setting him free, easing her hand inside his pants. Her fingers wrapped around him, and he thrust forward against her palm. She lost her balance and hopped wildly on the leg he wasn't holding, clawing at his back in a desperate battle to stay upright.

"Fuck," she hissed as she slammed into the doorknob right over the bruise she'd got from the banister. She yanked her leg back from Derek and staggered onto two feet. "The bed, Derek," she said, nudging him towards it. "We're gonna kill ourselves if we try to do this standing up." She hesitated as soon as the words had left her lips. Maybe not the best night to say kill. Stupid drunk brain. Derek seemed to be oblivious though. He just stumbled backwards, pulling at her. She shed her shirt as they staggered towards the bed and unhooked her bra as well. Tonight really wasn't the night to make him struggle with the clasp either. He grinned at her as she tossed her clothes to the ground, dark and lustful, glazed with things that screamed now and sex. Her hands caught up with him and stripped him of his shirt.

His arm wrapped around her waist and turned them together, and then she was falling backwards through giddy oblivion until her back slammed into the mattress and it shuddered to a halt. She grunted as he came down on top of her, not sparing her as much of his weight as he usually did. But then his mouth found hers again and she kissed him back while the room kept spinning. He'd kicked his way out of his pants and his fingers scraped along her thighs, ridding her legs of theirs as well. Her panties went along for the ride.

"I want you, Mer," he growled as he spread sloppy kisses down her throat towards her breasts.

His mouth closed around a nipple and he sucked. The room flared white and gold behind her eyes. Fireworks.

"Then have me," she hissed. Everything spun. Drunk, drunk, drunk. Thank god for the bed. She spread her thighs for him and gasped, staring up at the hazy blur of his face as he pushed in.

For a moment, everything was perfect. He filled her. She was very full, and the room was spinning. She kissed what she could reach, sliding up and down his throat and onto the stubble along his chin.

And then he started to cry.

At least that's what she thought it was. He loomed over her, shaking and spewing cracked, ugly sounds that might be sobs.

"Derek?" she asked, forcing his name out through the tequila slush and all the lust. She couldn't remember where she'd stashed her coherency. She felt like someone had strapped rollerblades to her feet and pushed her backwards down a hill. Derek. Crying. What? She flailed wildly for something, anything to hold onto.

He just kept shaking and making that upset sound that broke her heart and might be tears.

"What?" she tried again. "Hey, shhh…" He made more of those ugly wracking sounds and buried his head in the little hollow slope between her shoulder and her chin. She felt something wet on her neck. Tears. He was crying. Definitely crying. "Hey," she soothed. "Hey, hey. It's okay." Except it wasn't. He was still inside of her. Still jerking up with every sob in tiny little awkward thrusts. The lust drained out of her and left her cold. More tears soaked her skin, slipping down her neck and dampening her hair. He moaned and shook and pushed inside her, and she felt cracked in two. "Derek," she whispered, twisting to kiss the side of his face. He felt flushed, almost feverish, and his skin was slick. Tears. Sweat. Sorrow. "Hey, it's okay. We don't have to…" She shifted uncomfortably, pinned beneath him, by him. She couldn't do much without shoving him off her, and that was the last thing she wanted. "We can stop," she whispered. "You don't have to… Do you wanna stop?"

He just sobbed some more, his shoulders shaking as he dipped in and out and into her again barely an inch. She grabbed at his face with her hands and their noses mashed together. "Derek," she insisted, louder than before. "You're upset. You're crying. We should stop."

He seemed to hear her for the first time, and even in the dark she could make out the emotions catapulting across his face. Fear and misery. His eyes widened and his lip trembled. He looked horrified. "Please don't leave me," he moaned, sounding shattered and full of regret. "I'm sorry." He pulled out and resettled against her legs. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"Hey, it's okay," whispered Meredith. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm sorry," he choked out again. "I thought you… You don't want to."

"No, no…I do. It's fine." She soothed her hands over him, petting his hair, his arm, his back. She stared up at him, feeling lost. "We can, Derek, if that's what you want. I didn't know what to do. You were crying. That's all."

He hovered over her, still dripping tears onto her skin. They hung on the ends of his eyelashes and splattered against her cheeks. "Don't go," he said in a voice like eggshells already crushed. "Please. I want you."

"Okay," murmured Meredith. She reached down and wound her fingers around him, stroking him, teasing him, calling all the want back. He groaned as she guided him back to her. As she wound her arms around his back and locked her legs around his waist, and she pulled him deep inside of her. "I won't go," she promised. "I want you too. I love you."

He still shook with tiny, trembled sobs, but she held onto him tighter. "I love you," she said again. "I love you. I love you. I love you." The words became a constant stream of sound. She loved him. Over and over and always. Endlessly. Love. "I love you," she promised, pushing at his shoulder and rolling them over. She dipped down to kiss him, stroking his face as the tears dried up. The room still swam but it was a slow spin like something glimmering and glimpsed underwater. His eyes closed and he moaned, pressing kisses to her throat. "I love you. I love you," she said. She clenched around him, and his eyes flared open. He gasped, but the sound was torn somewhere between pleasure and horror.

"Don't," he stammered. "You can't. I won't last if you…"

"Shh," she said, kissing him again. All thoughts of getting off tonight had already surrendered the moment he'd started to cry. "It doesn't matter," she promised. "I'm good."

"No," he said, nearly snarling at her. "You have to come. I need to see. You have to." His words slurred and scraped together, hurt and angry, broken at the edges. She kissed the side of his face and pulled her hands out of his hair as she straightened up, resettling on her knees.

If he'd rather have that than her touching him…

She smoothed one hand over her breasts and dipped the other down between her legs, fingers rolling, struggling to rebuild the pressure she'd lost. "No," he snapped, batting her hands away and replacing them with his own.

"Derek," she whined, throwing her head back. His fingers fumbled, drunk and clumsy as if he didn't remember who she was. She wondered if his hands still hurt. If that was why he touched her like he didn't know how. "I, I…" _Can't._ This was going to bruise his whole male ego thing. On top of everything else that had been battered and broken within him today he was going to get his fucking stupid male ego bruised.

"You have to," he slurred, still touching her wrong.

Meredith rocked against him, trying to bring it back. She could fake it; the thought flickered through her. Faked finishes had been common enough with her one night stands, but not with him. Never with him. He'd drank too much though. He was still too far from sober to last long much longer. And this was supposed to make him feel better, not worse.

She was still debating when finally, finally it was as if he remembered who he was touching. His fingers rolled the right way, pressed in the right spot, and desire flared through her like a rocket, singeing her cells. She fell forward, gasping for his mouth as everything started to swim again, hazy with lust. She tumbled into his kiss. "Please," she whined. "Do that more. Do that more. Do that more."

He jerked his hips up, thrusting into her further, further. Scraping along her, dragging her closer to insanity. "Come," he growled like she'd do it if he said it, like it was the same as passing him a ten blade when he asked for it. But his fingers teased her closer and closer until it was the same and she melted in his hands. Everything sparked and flared and cried. She slumped back down against him, spent and tingling with a host of wonderful, warm, swirling things. He finished barely a moment later with a tortured groan, and she wondered vaguely as she felt him seep inside her slow and wet if he'd used up every last reserve of self control to do just that.

"Merdith…" he slurred, skipping the middle syllable entirely. They pulled apart and she missed him, but then they were curling up together again. Close. Side by side, and there was warmth and the slippery feel of his skin against hers and the tear soaked pillow beneath her cheek.

"I love you," she said. Her surplus was long gone, but he smiled and so it didn't matter. Dark things still lurked behind his eyes, and it was only the tequila and the afterglow keeping them at bay, but for now, for a moment, they'd been vanquished. She rolled him into her arms, twining around him, tangling her fingers in his hair. "Sleep," she whispered. "I'm here."

He kissed her throat once, more of a sloppy breath against her skin than anything else, and then he did. She settled down and curled around him. His eyes closed; hers didn't.

She brought his battered fist to her lips and held it there like a treasure.

He slept and she listened to him breathe.


End file.
